MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol by Tanya Anne Crosby

Prologue
    N orthumbria , Aldergh Castle, December 6, 1135

    “ I n the name of the deceased, lady Eleanore of Aldergh, dead this sixth day of December in the year of our lord 1135…”

    H ugh FitzSimon hurled the newly arrived letter across his desk.
    Eleanore, dearest Eleanore, was dead.
    He’d kept her from their daughter all these years past, never revealing to Page that her mother still lived. Why, he could not say, but now that Eleanore was gone, the knowledge settled like a stone within his breast.
    To make matters worse, King Henry was calling all his barons to Lyons-la-Foret in France and Hugh could simply not bear to face the man—sovereign or nay. Thankfully, his bastard son, Afric, had offered to save him the trip, representing Aldergh in FitzSimon’s name.
    After all, it wasn’t as though King Henry could be dying.
    Howbeit, Eleanore, his dearest Eleanore, was gone—her spirit flown to God.
    Grief choked him about the throat.
    Grief. Shame. Regret.
    These now would be his bedfellows.
    “Eleanore,” he whispered low—a broken sound that bounced off bare stone.
    His wife had been a vision to be sure, so lovely to behold. That she’d found it in her spirit to say nay to their king had simply never appealed to Hugh’s sense of reason. After all, who could say nay to their lord sovereign and protector? Hugh himself would have allowed the man to bugger him if he’d only but asked. It made no sense to him that his meek little wife could hold her marriage vows above the wishes of their king. And despite the fact that she’d sworn she’d remained true, Hugh never found it in his heart to believe her—or to forgive her. And why? Because she’d caught Henry’s eye?
    Some part of Hugh had been envious as well.
    It was true.
    All his life he’d aspired to become more than a lowly baron. And then he’d gone and wed the lovely Eleanore, and King Henry suddenly took notice, inviting them both regularly to court, although his attentions were always for Eleanore, none for Hugh.
    Out of jealousy, Hugh had cast his lovely bride away, and pride never allowed him to bring her home. Even now, they would entomb Eleanore near the priory, and he would never again behold her lovely face.
    And worse—for all the pain he’d caused, he’d made their daughter pay.
    The last time he’d attempted to see Page, the MacKinnon threatened cut out his heart. And that man would do it; Hugh had very little doubt. Iain MacKinnon was not a man to be trifled with.
    Ultimately, this was all King Henry’s fault, Hugh decided, although at least he wasn’t alone in his misery. The King himself had no heirs. Henry’s one and only son had found his fate at the bottom of the sea, leaving the king very little choice but to name his recalcitrant daughter as his heir. Hugh might do the same for Page, except that she loathed him still.
    A memory crept back to torment him, words that could never be recalled: “My son for your daughter,” Iain MacKinnon had offered, tossing Page’s shoe up on the ramparts for Hugh to behold as proof that he held his daughter for ransom.
    Hugh’s heart had remained cold. “What need have I of that brat?” he’d said. “I’ve sons aplenty and the means to forge myself more.” All bastards, not a one fit to bear his name.And yet, he’d declared, “Keep her, or kill her. I care not which.”
    And so MacKinnon kept her, and then he’d wed her, and FitzSimon never saw his daughter again.
    A rumble of a sigh escaped him, the sound amplified in the cavernous interior of his home. What good were riches if they would be heaped upon his grave? What good was gold to a miserable sack of bones?
    Aye, in truth, FitzSimon rued the day he’d sent his women away, for now who remained? He was alone, save for Afric, who’d stayed only because he hoped Hugh would enfief him some day—another bastard son to bear the Fitz name. Afric would then be known as Afric Fitzhugh FitzSimon—hardly a legacy to be proud